


In A Hail Of Bullets and Roses

by MyMusicRuinsLives



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Frerard, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-07 20:00:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14088549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyMusicRuinsLives/pseuds/MyMusicRuinsLives
Summary: Everything has a consequence. Life's unfortunate consequence is death.





	In A Hail Of Bullets and Roses

**Author's Note:**

> So I edited this again because I was writing the second chapter and this flows better

Someone once told me that everything has its consequence. Life’s consequence is, unfortunately, death. I sit in the back of the church, the second to last pew, watching the priest’s lips move, but hearing nothing but white noise; an older woman makes her way to that fancy, ornate box at the top of the three burgundy carpeted steps that remind me of wine that had spilled on my mother’s white carpet when I was younger. I never really understood, and I still don’t, the emotions that belonged to funerals; the bleak skies, the colorless attire, the tear stained cheeks, none of it ever had a hold on me, and it never will. The woman’s words never strike me as she cries about wanting her beautiful baby boy back from the dead and how God must be punishing her; maybe I should be more sympathetic, but why should I when, after this, everyone here will go a designated house to snack on sandwiches and wine while trying to avoid the unbearable topic of death. Someone helps the mother (I assume) down those steps, holding onto her like she was their lifeline now. Like that person inside that box was the only thing keeping them alive, but now they had to cling to the mother, hoping every memory will never fade from behind their eyes. The priest finishes that simple yet complex verse that separates the living from the dead. Shuffling bodies replace the sound of muffled crying as the casket is closed, a signal that the mourning process was over and everyone should go home and continue as normal. The mother, she would be temporarily depressed before a survivor’s guilt of some type would kick in and take bits of her motherly tenderness and warmth, leaving a shell of a woman who is as bitter as an unripened fruit. The siblings would casually pass by the dead’s room, expecting that person to still be in there, only to disappoint themselves when they aren’t greeted by a warm face and a smile, but a cold, bodiless room with everything as it was; this goes on for weeks until they eventually give up the sick and twisted idea that their sibling would still be in there. The other relatives would generously bestow their condolences with heavy hearts, never really wanting to bring it up, but always managing too. The dead would soon be part of uncomfortable polite conversation at family gatherings, and of course, the annual mourning of their death would break into the hearts of those close to the dead, only passing once the day is over. They make their way out of the pale, cream colored church, crying and looking back at each other, praying that one of them isn’t crying and might soothe them.  
I feel a hand rest on my shoulder lightly, stealing me back from the depths of thought: a young man stands to the side, letting the funeral march make its way solemnly past him as if it never truly existed. At first, I thought he must be a sibling or close relative of whomever it was that was eternally sleeping in that fancy box they delicately call a casket. He gives me a gentle smile, his long, dark hair gently concealed his eyes, but only to where I barely saw those enthralling hazel orbs meet mine. “I don’t believe you look familiar,” he observes lightly, pushing strands of hair out of his pale face. I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting the copper metallic liquid that seems to be the force to life. “Oh, I’m not- sorry for intruding,” I stutter, trying not to be impolite. He kindly laughs, brushing off the apology. “My name is Gerard. This was my cousin’s funeral.” I feel my stomach churn. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He shrugs, sitting next to me as the march dissipates. “We weren’t close.” I nod awkwardly, feeling slightly uncomfortable for interposing on a family affair that wasn’t even mine. “I’m Frank. I should get going, I really am sorry for-“Gerard rolls his eyes and sighs. “Don’t apologize, please. And actually-“He pulls another young man to the conversation who looks drastically different from Gerard. “This is my brother, Mikey,” he continues, giving me a charming smile. Mikey is tall, lanky, and almost the opposite of his brother. He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, smiling awkwardly. “Frank here is a friend of mine,” Gerard lies to his brother, forcing Mikey to shake my hand. It was until this moment I completely ignored the fact that my hands were clammy and cold. “Gerard, I didn’t know you had friends,” Mikey jokes, elbowing his brother in the ribs. There was a certain discomfort on Gerard’s face as the stale conversation drags on. “Are you joining us for tea, Frank?” Gerard asks courteously, standing up, the sleeves of his black dress shirt lifting up slightly, revealing healing bruises on his wrists. “Uh…” I catch myself staring at his wrists and quickly divert my attention to his face. “Yes,” I say, hoping he didn’t notice. Mikey clears his throat, prodding at Gerard to leave as the next funeral was being set up right before them. Gerard waits for Mikey to go away before offering his hand and quickly retracting it as I stand up without assistance.  
Outside of the church, the hearse was being tailed by cars of the family that was going to see the burial take place. It was a strangely masochistic the way people forced the sadness upon themselves. I stare at Gerard, who lights a cigarette beside me. He smirks and looks down at his feet. “You have a staring problem,” he observes, putting on a pair of sunglasses to shield those beautiful eyes from the midmorning sun. I shrug, trying to pass it off as a casual habit.The wind rustles the dead leaves on the ground, twirling them, curiously leaving them on the stone memorials. I look at my shoes, the laces tattered and the shoes covered in dirt and grime. I gaze at the trees, losing myself in the serenity of the church’s garden. “You need a ride, Frank?” Gerard asks, putting out his cigarette on the sidewalk. “I, uh, yeah. I guess I do,” I reply uneasily, a squeezing feeling wrapping around my throat. “Don't worry,” he laughs, “I don't bite too hard.” He winks at me, and I force a smile.Wanna bail and do something else?” He asks suddenly, noticing my discomfort. “I, actually, uh,” I fumble awkwardly with my speech, “I came to visit someone.” He raises an eyebrow. “May I join?”


End file.
